


Masquerade

by meetmeatthecoda



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Day of the Death, Drama, F/M, Halloween, Kissing, Lizzington - Freeform, Masquerade Ball, One-Shot, Romance, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 03:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: Based on a tumblr prompt by agxntkeen involving a masquerade ball, unexpected meetings, dancing, masks, and sexiness. Halloween/Day of the Dead themed. T-rated, Lizzington, one-shot.





	Masquerade

Liz isn’t supposed to be here. 

She’s the least qualified of the team to be undercover, alone and un-miced, at an event of this size. She’s surrounded by some of the worst criminals in the world, no badge, gun, or back-up, expected to not draw any attention to herself while still searching the place for the next criminal on their blacklist. And she’s in a dress. 

At a Day of the Dead Masquerade Ball.

No, Liz definitely isn’t supposed to be here. But she’s here anyway, standing quietly off to the side of a large, dimly lit ballroom, watching all the criminals laugh and talk and drink and dance to a live band, wondering why the hell she’s the one in this room when Samar has so much more experience in situations like this. Not to mention she’d look exponentially better in this dress, with visible cleavage and a slit up to her thigh, black and red lace, complete with an elaborate woven mask around her eyes and a red rose in her hair.

Liz feels ridiculous.

Spotting a passing waiter, Liz makes a lunge for his tray, filled with glasses of what she prays is alcohol, managing to snag a small tumbler of startlingly red liquid. She squints at it with a fair amount of skepticism. She’s obviously not supposed to drink on duty but no one’s here to see and, frankly, if they hadn’t put her in a situation like this, she wouldn’t need the assistance of liquor, so it’s really their fault in the end, so, here she goes, bottoms up and – 

“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.”

No.

She would know that voice anywhere.

But he isn't supposed to be here either, that's the thing. He merely suggested this masquerade was where their target may possibly show up and secured her an invitation, citing other nefarious activities that would take him out of the country at the time of the dance.

Liz squeezes her eyes shut.

Liar.

(And she kicks herself for being surprised.)

Liz takes a fortifying breath and opens her eyes, turning towards the all too familiar sound of his voice. 

“And why is that?” she asks sardonically, managing to get the whole question out before she actually takes in the sight of him, whereupon her breath dies on her lips.

He's wearing a mask. 

That's not unusual, given where they are, at a masquerade ball, where everyone is in a mask of some sort. It’s really the perfect place for criminals, where they have an excuse, a requirement, to hide their faces. That's what makes this undercover op especially difficult: how is she supposed to find their perp when no one looks like themselves? All the masks are Day of the Dead themed, so there's skeletons everywhere she looks. 

And Red is no exception. 

His mask captures her special attention though. Whereas most of the other ones are the standard white skeleton design with some black markings, Red's is the opposite. The color scheme is reversed. His mask is all black with various white markings and designs. It doesn't stand out overtly among the other masks, but it certainly is different. It blends in beautifully with his standard black tuxedo, and his stormy green eyes are as piercing as ever through the holes cut out.

The effect is striking.

Liz blinks at him for a moment, at a loss for words, her eyes roving over the unfamiliar addition to his face, taking it in.

(Appreciatively. Something about the whole vision is captivating. She loves it.)

Red watches her watch him, quite obviously enjoying her wide-eyed gaze. 

“Let's just say I've had some bad experiences as a result of that particular liquid,” he says in answer to her question.

“Another naked escapade in the desert?” she quips, unable to stop herself.

(And she'll choose not to read into the fact that was the first thing that came to her mind.)

His lips quirk.

“Something like that.”

Liz hums noncommittally, watching as Red's eyes now move over her, lingering below her eye line. Liz wonders absently what has caught his attention, her breasts or her thigh.

(Oh, what she'd give to know.)

“What are you doing here?” she asks bluntly when she feels herself start to flush under his unflinching gaze.

“You look...tantalizing, Lizzie.”

His obvious side-stepping of her question combined with his peculiar choice of adjective, murmured in his deep voice, has a familiar mixture of irritation and excitement rising within her.

“I thought you said you had business out of the country,” she presses, choosing not to acknowledge his dangerous compliment.

Sometimes he says things that are best ignored.

“That dress is very...flattering on you,” he continues, completely oblivious to her questions, his gaze slipping low again.

Like that.

(It’s the thigh, definitely the thigh.)

Liz feels her face get red under her own mask, which covers considerably less of her face then his does, and shifts uneasily on the spot. He's never been quite this obvious with his admiration of her before. 

(This is dangerous. And exciting.) 

He sees her shift and visibly pulls himself together, taking a breath and straightening up, forcing his eyes upward to meet hers again, making a study of her mask now, as opposed to other parts of her.

“My business was postponed,” he finally answers simply. “So, I thought I'd come and join you instead.”

“In what capacity?” she snaps, quickly losing patience with his shadiness.

He works his mouth.

(Ha.)

“In whatever capacity you'll have me, Lizzie,” he murmurs, so quietly she has to lean forward a little to hear him over the band. 

(Bad, bad.)

“But I can't help but notice that you're without a plus one,” he tacks on at the end, louder and with more confidence.

Liz feels a flutter inside her and furiously stomps on it, responding outwardly with a snide roll of her eyes. 

“That's not appropriate, Reddington, you know I'm undercover,” she hisses with a cautious glance to the party guests around her, making sure no one overheard her.

Red considers her for a moment. “Well then, perhaps your undercover alter ego needs a plus one,” he suggests easily. “Besides, you don't know who you're looking for, do you? Maybe you could use my help, Lizzie.”

Liz glares at him, unwilling seeing the sense in his argument. 

“Well, I still don't –”

“Dance with me.”

He interrupts her, rather tactlessly which is unlike him, and his tone of voice rather surprises her. It's not an order, as he could easily have demanded, but more of a desperate plea that she doesn't quite expect. 

She looks down to see his hand outstretched, an offer that she's free to refuse, as always, and she really should.

(But something in her abhors the thought of turning him down and she’s somehow burning to say yes.)

But Liz puts on a good show, pretending she’s doing this for the undercover op, not her own strange, inner drives.

(She’s been doing that more and more lately.)

“Fine,” she snaps, placing her hand in his irritably, trying to ignore the sparks she feels when they touch. “We’ll have a better vantage point out there to look for our perp.”

Red entwines their fingers, surprising Liz, and his warm touch sets her heart racing. He turns away and tugs on her hand, working his way through the throngs of people towards the dance floor in the center of the room.

“As much as I love it when you say words like that to me, Lizzie, I thought you said we’re supposed to be undercover. And undercover cops never say words like that out loud. Remember, we’re acting.”

Liz barely refrains from rolling her eyes behind him as she follows him through the crowd, instead focusing on the back of his head, where his mask is secured by a black satin ribbon tied over his closely-shorn hair. She wonders idly what his hair feels like.

She swallows.

Red continues to walk for a few second more before Liz frowns, wondering how far he’s going to take them and if she should pull back and make them stop, not wanting to go too far out onto the dance floor. But right as she considers stopping, Red comes to halt and spins around to face her, smiling triumphantly.

He’s brought them to the very middle of the dancefloor.

“Damn it, Red,” Liz hisses. “We’re supposed to be staying back, not drawing attention to ourselves, don’t you get it?”

“Lizzie, no one knows who we are,” Red reminds her patiently. “We’re wearing masks, remember?”

Liz huffs, still not buying it, but not wanting to make a scene, she says nothing more. She glares over Red’s shoulder, trying to conspicuously search the room for their perp. But she doesn’t get a good look because, before she knows it, one of Red’s hands has taken ahold of her right one and his other has wrapped around her waist and tugged her forward to hit his body. Liz lets out a surprised breath of air. 

“Red,” she gasps, hoping the breathless quality to her voice is only from surprise.

“We’re supposed to be dancing, Lizzie, that’s why we came to the dancefloor,” he murmurs, his voice now deep and close to her ear. “It would look odd if we weren’t dancing on the dancefloor, wouldn’t it?”

Liz blinks rapidly, no retort coming immediately to her lips, too caught up in the close-up view of his eyes, glinting behind his mask, the black and white of it creating a stark contrast. The feeling of being pressed against him, her dress to his suit, is stealing all her attention, his large, warm hand engulfing hers and his strong shoulders under her arm. 

(And he smells good.)

“We need to look for your blacklister, Red,” she says, her voice quieter and more intimate. Only because they're closer to one another now. Obviously.

And being as close as she is, Liz can see Red’s eye twitch, making his mask shift, just slightly, before he can catch himself. 

Oh. 

Liz feels her jaw clench, her eyes narrowing at him.

“He’s not here, is he?”

Red’s gaze darts away from hers. Nervous, if she didn’t know any better. 

(She does.)

“He cancelled at the last minute. By the time I heard, you were already here, and I was on my way.”

“Is that really the truth? Because if I put on this stupid dress for nothing, I swear to God I’m going to –”

“I have never lied to you,” he cuts her off smoothly, the sincerity shining out from behind his mask. “So, you can believe me when I say that you look…absolutely stunning in that dress, Lizzie. It was worth every second of struggle, I assure you.”

It’s Liz’s turn to avert her eyes, unable to stare directly at him while he says such things, feeling her cheeks start to heat in another blush underneath the scratchy fabric of her own mask.

(He’s not lying.)

“Well then, Red, if your blacklister isn’t here, we don’t need to be undercover any more, do we?”

“But we are,” Red says, suddenly talking fast, surprising her again. “With these masks, we could be anybody, Lizzie. No one knows who we are, our real selves. We could be a married couple or two people on a date for the evening, perhaps cheating on our respective spouses, or just here for a night of fun, using the security of our masks as protection against reality…”

And his voice is turning low and syrupy, weaving a story for them, hypnotizing her, warm and drugging, and she’ll be damned if she’s not reeling from the truth of it. The anonymity of it all. 

He's right.

Because there’s no one here that matters but them. No other agents to see them dancing this closely, no other criminals that will remember them in the morning, what with all the alcohol flowing, absolutely no one.

They could be anyone. And do anything.

She continues to sway with him, now fully letting him lead, leaning dazedly into him and his warmth and he can feel her give in, humming low in his chest and she can feel the vibration of it, making her press closer in response.

They sway for a while in slow circles, in their own little world of heat and closeness, couples twirling and talking and laughing around them, paying them no mind, heedless of the attraction and tension starting to bubble between them, those feelings that have been fermenting between them for months, maybe longer.

And Red is patient, letting her settle into it, this new feeling, before suddenly he’s leaning even closer, whispering into her ear, his breath warm and smelling like scotch and peppermint, speaking words that she knows she can’t turn back from.

“So, what do you say, Lizzie? Who do you want to be tonight?”

And it’s not really her fault when, in the next instant, her lips are on his, kissing him with a fervor she didn’t know she possessed, drunk on the heat in the air and his voice in her ear, finding herself deliriously grateful that his mask only extends to right below his nose, leaving his mouth free while hers is only fabric, not impeding their movement. 

He distracts her from her scattered thoughts by letting out a small noise of surprise, just a little thing, that morphs quickly into a low sound that has her removing her hands from their dancing positions and instead gripping the lapels of his suit and pulling him closer. He responds by tightening his arm around her waist and moving his other hand to her hair, working his fingers into it to press against her scalp. Liz loves the feeling, pulling back just enough to nip at his lower lip, something that he loves more than she expected, from the way it has him tilting his head and deepening their kiss, his tongue introducing itself to tangle with hers. He tastes exquisite, a stronger version of what his breath smells like, clean and fresh and _Red_ , and Liz moves a hand to grip the back of his neck, running over his hair, reveling at the texture of it, the very thing she pondered earlier in the evening when they were other people. 

Themselves. 

And then she uses her nails to scratch a little as she feels his jaw work, mouth moving over hers desperately, and she can just feel his hand move to ghost over her exposed thigh, something that has her starting to whimper into his mouth, when suddenly someone bumps into her from behind and has her instinctively ripping her mouth from his to turn and look.

In some foggy part in the back of her mind, the one still thoroughly engrossed in their kiss, she notes his little groan at being parted from her before she feels him pulling her tighter against him, protectively, instinctively, when he sees the drunk guest that has run into her, the one who simply slurs an apology and staggers off.

Liz takes a moment to watch him go while she tries to get her bearings, to come back to herself, leaving whoever she just turned into behind in Red’s mouth.

“Lizzie.”

She turns automatically towards him saying her name, in a tone of voice that tells her he’s struggling too, trying to regain his footing, just as affected by their kiss as she is. She looks into his eyes, behind his mask, still firmly in place. They are dark and serious, darting between her lips and her eyes, and Liz takes in a quick breath at the sight of his swollen lips, knowing hers must look much the same. 

They take a moment to stare, communicating without words in the way they sometimes do, balanced on the edge of running or diving headfirst into more, something that will be too much, too fast, too wonderful to handle.

Liz knows from the way he’s gazing at her that it will be her choice.

(It always is.)

And she knows what she should do, even though it’s not necessarily what she wants, she knows that they can’t take any more tonight, not if they want to return to themselves in one piece when this is over.

“I should go.”

Red blinks, taking in her words, and she can see him battling himself into submission, coming back fully to himself, before he nods at her.

“Would you like a ride home?”

She knows that offer doesn’t come with any implications. He hears that she’s made her choice and he accepts that and now he’s simply concerned about her getting home safely. And that tells her more than anything that she’s made the right choice. 

(For tonight.)

“No, I’ll be alright, thank you.”

Red simply nods once more, stepping back from her, untangling them, keeping ahold of only her hand, which he then lifts to his lips and kisses lightly, gently, holding her gaze the entire time, one long, heavy moment, before he drops it and disappears into the crowd.

Liz can breathe again, when he’s gone, and she’s not sure if she prefers it or not. She knows she needs to go home now and think things through. Because the only thing she's sure of is that tonight, they weren’t quite themselves. 

And tomorrow? 

Well, tomorrow they’ll see who they are.

* * *

Red pulls out his phone as he hurries away from Lizzie, leaving her on the dance floor, sending a quick text to Dembe, asking him to see that she gets home safely. He’ll know this means to stay out of her sight, a quiet protector in the darkness, as he’s been for quite a long time.

Red tucks his phone back into his pocket as he heads for the vintage doors off to the side of the ballroom, tucked out of the way and leading out onto the deserted balcony. He yanks it open as quickly as he dares and slips outside, shutting it firmly behind him, the cool night air doing wonders for his head, ridding him of the fog Lizzie left there with her lips and her teeth and her _thigh_ – 

Red squeezes his eyes shut and moves to press his back against the wall beside the doors, hidden from the view of anyone who might wander outside, guarded by a long ivy plant, creeping up the wall beside him while he rests in the darkness.

When he came to the masquerade tonight, he didn’t expect this. He thought he might get a dance with her, if he was lucky, but _that_ , what actually happened, that was so much more than he could have hoped for. 

(Perhaps more than he was ready for.)

He knows Lizzie felt that way too, he could see it her wild blue eyes, framed beautifully by her black lace mask, a sight that both excited him and gave him pause. He thinks she made the right choice, absolutely, and he would never question her judgement. 

Even so, he knows he’ll be thinking of the feeling of her nails on his scalp in every waking moment that follows for the rest of his life and quite possibly the unconscious moments as well.

And, standing there in the cold night air, Red brings his hand up to his face to smell the rose that he cradles there, surreptitiously taken from her hair while they were kissing, and he finds it smells like her. He inhales deeply, hidden in the dark, her ghostly lips still on his, and makes himself a promise.

Tonight was incredible, with the excitement and the freedom of being anyone they wanted, anyone other than who they actually are, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

But the next time he kisses her?

He will be Red, and she will be Lizzie, and there won’t be anyone around to watch.

The next time he kisses her, they won’t be wearing masks.


End file.
